


Simple Things

by Mello_McQueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind!Dean, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-27
Updated: 2009-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mello_McQueen/pseuds/Mello_McQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean just wanted to prove that he could do it. Do something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Things

**Author's Note:**

> I want for cold weather. written at: June 27, 2009.

Dean hates Oklahoma, he thinks as he walks down the cracked and buckling streets of another nameless town, taking each step carefully so as too avoid sliding on any unseen patches of ice. The temperature, he knows, is somewhere near fifty degrees but the force of the wind sweeping through the streets makes it feel like it's below freezing, and he hates it. He hates the way it makes his nose run and his face and hands grow numb from cold. As another forceful gust of wind hits him, Dean stops, shivering, and pulls his glove-less hands out of his pockets in order to secure the buttons on his coat.

When he finishes he thrusts his hands back into the semi-warm confines, and continues walking. Inwardly, he curses his luck. It is only the beginning of November but already ice coats the hardened ground, though he has been here long enough to know that it will dissipate in the light of the mid-day sun. Now though, at 8:00 in the morning, he is freezing and wishing the demon they are hunting might turn south towards Texas, because at least it's warmer there, though he shudders to think what might happen if the thing were to make it into Mexico, because he knows they would lose it then, and he doesn't want that, but still. . .he hates it here.

And he hates that Sam is out there somewhere hunting the thing, alone. He hates it but he knows there is nothing he can do but what he is already doing, which admittedly, does not feel like much at all as he walks down the empty streets.

There is a drug store on the corner, four blocks from where he and his brother are staying. It's a short distance comparatively, and Dean knows the walk shouldn't take nearly as long as it does, but he has to be careful so he doesn't screw up. He tests each step before moving forward, trying not to think about what might happen if he were to fall and hurt himself. . .again. Inside the pocket of his coat, Dean's fingers twitch as he wars with the urge to pull his hands out of the warm space and touch the two inch gash on the side of his head. Even though it's been over three weeks since the incident, the wound still throbs periodically-a constant reminder of what he can no longer do.

Of what Sam won't _allow_ him to do.

And Dean thinks he doesn't need any more restrictions than the ones he has right now, so he's glad to finally be standing in front of the small building, safe and sound. He smiles, proud of this accomplishment. _See, Sam_ , he thinks, _I can take care of myself._ as the bell above the door dings and a heavy set man steps out. Dean anticipates the man's movements, and agilely steps around him, into the store. He is glad of the hard-tile surface below his feet, dry and impregnable, but warily he tests his feet on it anyway. When the shoes he wears do not slide in the slightest he breathes a sigh of relief before approaching the counter.

It's Tuesday and Sarah is behind the counter having a battle with the cash register. She mutters and curses under her breath, jabbing angrily at the buttons on the old machine, until it beeps and whirs relinquishing a long list of past receipts and data that she has told Dean before she doesn't understand, because, of course, she is just a temp.

Dean smiles softly as she lets out a cry of victory and says to no one in particular: Thank you! before turning her attention to him.

"Hey," she says drawing out the word, her voice sounding breathless. "Mr. Dean wasn't it?" Dean nods in response and she laughs softly. "Hah!" She exclaims, clapping her hands together loudly. "I knew it! ...well, what can I do for you today, Mr. Dean?"

In the back of his mind, Dean thinks about telling her not to call him "Mr." but it's not really important right now, so instead he casts his eyes towards the shelves of medicine to his right and says simply: "I need things."

There is a moment of silence as he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, which he holds out to her. Sarah takes and unfolds it happily, smoothing it out against the countertop. She lets out a low whistle. "Wow, that's quite a list." She says, and Dean doesn't miss the slight suspicion in her tone despite the laugh that follows. "What? Are you planning to start your own medical company?"

Dean shakes his head without comment, and he can tell by her hesitation that the woman is wondering about the sort of life he leads but she pushes her curiosity aside and is smiling when she says: "Well, let's see what we can do about this list."

Fifteen minutes later, Dean stands with one hand clutching at a brown paper bag filled with medical supplies as Sarah takes the money in his other and returns his change to him. He rolls the coins between his fingers, counting each one before pocketing them. "Thanks." He says, politely, after a moment and shouldering the bag in his arms he walks from the store-Dean can feel curious eyes watching him as he does and he hates the way it makes him feel, open, vulnerable, like a rat trapped in a maze, but in a way he is happy because this is something he can do.

Just as he thinks this, Dean rounds the corner and collides with something very solid with a force that knocks him to the ground.

Breathless, he lies flat on his back, feeling the ice on the sidewalk melt, and soak into his clothes. The bag of supplies is still clutched tightly in his hands, and Dean is grateful for this as a gruff voice above hims shouts:

"Hey, watch where you're going you-" but the end of the man's sentence is cut short and he sucks in a breath. "Ah, Jesus. . ." the man starts again as Dean sits up and a second later Dean can feel the man's hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, buddy. Hey, are you okay?"

Dean wants to scream. He wants to tell the man that, no, he's not fucking okay, because he can feel something leaking down his arm, that he knows isn't just water, because it's warm and it _has_ to be blood. He wants to tell the man how mad Sam is going to be when he sees the wound, and how he'll think Dean can't take care of himself, even when Dean is supposed to be taking care of them both. He wants to tell the man that it is all _his_ fault.

He wants to tell the man this, but instead he says nothing and allows the man to pull him to his feet. "You oughta be more careful." The man says, softly, dusting Dean off as he stands there clutching the bag. Dean wants to punch the man in his face, but he doesn't because the man is asking if there is anything he can do for Dean and right now, Dean could use the assistance, so he asks the man for as much help as he will allow himself to.

A few minutes later, Dean is standing back on the front step of the drug store. The man is gone, but Sarah is now standing beside him. Her voice is concerned, and she frets. "Mr. Dean, what are you doing back here?" then she gasps. "Oh, my God. What happened? You're bleeding. . ."

Dean bites down on his lower lip, hating the truth of her words. He says, simply: "I lost count." and he starts off again. ****


End file.
